Choices, choices...jesus or a gun?
by Ohimesama
Summary: A memory of a struggling child, a choice, a inner reflection...Isn't Duo flexiable?


Author: Ohimesama

Author: OhimesamaDate Written: May 30th and June 1st, 2001

Disclaimer: Ohimesama owns neither Gundam Wing's character Duo Maxwell, nor the song _Jesus or a Gun_ by Fuel.

Lyrics from _Jesus or a Gun_, by Fuel

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Bold _is lyrics; _plain text_ is the story._

Lyrics tend to follow the paragraph above them.

Jesus or a Gun

The child stumbled through the broken stones, his violet eyes strangely distant and empty, faithfully following a never-ending length of wire. A glimmer of metal twisted in the rubble caught his gaze, and he bent down, picking the half-melted sign up, and turning it in his hands. 

MAXWELL CHURCH**, **he read. He threw the sign from him, pain rising in his eyes, the distant look stealing back over the violet oceans.

He turned his back on his destroyed home; shuffling away slowly, his shoulders slumped. The child followed the coiling wire blindly, knowing only that where it ended, he would stop.

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Walk away, I walk the wire

The small figure near looking back at the licking flames that rose behind him, hungrily devouring the colony. Fires of destruction lining where he had walked, lapping at his heels as a little more fuel dripped out unnoticed of the frayed pouch at his waist. His home was burning.

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And my fields are burning in the flames

He fell to the ground, cracked fingernails clawing at the muddy, false earth, trying to pull himself up. Though the child's will was strong, his body could no longer go on, worn down by malnutrition and days of walking. He forced a crawl, half in the mud, struggling on his hands and knees. The smoke from the fires following him stung his eyes, further hiding the bright violet behind walls of sorrow, smoke and guilt.

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Feel my way, blind in the mire

A low, warm alto spoke inside his head, softly reminding him that he wasn't alone. Words of encouragement, of belief, faith, trust rang gently in the frightened vaults of his mind. Never fear, little one, Solo will always be with you. But the child could not believe the voice; it was lying for sure. I try, his silent voice cried. I try! I try!

****

Struggling from your voice inside my head

Little waves of exhaustion tugged lovingly at his awareness, quietly eating away at his health as water does a beach. The wire he was following shimmered beside him, above the dried blood and scorch marks. He reached with one trembling hand to touch it; he had to go on…but it was so hard…he was so alone.

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But now everything's trying to drag me down

A manic gleam came into those eyes, shoving aside all the emotions. He started to laugh, soft and quiet, with an almost invisible hysterical edge that promised and warned. With a half-tumble, he lay on his back, staring up at the sky. Two sturdy hands, baby fat completely gone, clawed at the air as his frightening, crazed laugh floated up, carried by eager tendrils of smoke.

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But I'll rip the sky from the ground

The silence was immense. It crushed him, and he felt the desire to speak, to full that yawning gap with words, to comfort himself and save him from the thoughts that followed on the heels of silence. Little flames licked at his feet and hands, reminding him that he should go. But he was locked in a myriad of memories, and mundane matters seemed very distant. They all died…no one was there to help him, to stitch the hole in his heart that was sucking him dry. The silence rushed back in, and another wild laugh choked in his throat.

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But tell me who's my saving one

He looked up, the metal clutched tightly in his left hand, cold and reassuring. His fingers clenched around the trigger, and he felt it rise, almost of its own accord, to rest against the hollow of his throat. The ring of coldness burned against his pale skin, bring back memories of that little boy that had struggled through the flames, a thin wire his only lead. His right hand clung to the silver cross around his neck, the chain dipping down around his priest collar. Both pieces of metal represented opposing forces. To burn in Hell or be saved by God?

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Jesus or a gun

His eyes traced the outline of Deathscythe, down the curve of the wicked green scythe, across the brooding head. Here was the death of all his wishes, desires. He was a murderer of countless man and innocents, and this was his weapon. I do it for peace, he thought, and laughed bitterly. The familiar hysterical edge crept in once more, flooding his mind with memories of fighting, of laughing as he faced Death and played it at the same time. Deathscythe and all it represented were what had changed him from that boy into this cold murderer who hid behind a mask of smiles and jokes. This was not what he wanted.

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Stripped away my last desire

The gun dropped, clattering, to the floor and his fingers fell from around the cross. He knew better then to want more. He gave nothing, and got the same in return. Whatever his mouth said, his eyes betrayed him, showing the utter despair that lurked silently at the bottom of his heart. He was undeserving, a killer rivaled only by the other four gundam pilots. 

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Nothing comes and nothing's sent away

His gaze fell to the floor; intently studying the smooth concrete of the hanger as his mind flew away, touching on the events of his short life. How had the little boy starving on the street made it to this youth starving for a normal life, with normal pleasures and pains? He hated the rush killing gave him, the high he got when piloting Deathscythe, he hated the way it felt when he stepped out of the cockpit, almost like the other half of his soul was being ripped away. He wasn't happy, he knew that; but his drug of choice chained him to this life, no matter how he pretended.

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Happiness I couldn't hire

He shook his head violently, the long braid swinging wildly, hitting his back repetitively. He couldn't bear the memories, or the disheartening thoughts that accompanied them. He was Pilot 02, of the Gundam Deathscythe. That was his life. No more needed to exist. Forced the thoughts out of his mind, he tore his gaze again from his instrument of death, and turned away.

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Struggling from these thoughts inside my head

His parents, Father Maxwell, Sister Helen, Solo…all were pushed away. They had died, but he had lived. Anyone in contact with him would die—it was the curse of Shinigami, of the God of Death. And deep inside, he was glad. No need for the pain of love, of dependence. He liked it fast and furious; that's when he could release his feelings into the controls of Deathscythe or into his own body, and then out into the world, leaving him alone for a while. Roughing it was what he needed. Anything else was too weak.

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All that's safer falls from my favor

He, too, was a tool to a far away person, just as Deathscythe was his tool of destruction. He was a method, a means to get to the end. Not important, just a little instrument to be used and then discarded when all was finished. No one would care, or even know.

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When it's over who will cry for me

He nudged the gun with one black booted foot. What did he want now? He had the fights that cleansed him of those troublesome irritations, he had lost all the things he had held and loved, he no longer saw anything he wanted.

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It's safe to say I don't desire

And then there was…her. Her ridiculous ideals, betraying OZ to give him crucial information. Risking her life for his mission. Loving him when he was too numb to feel the same. Why did she kept pushing these concepts to him, sending them again when he shook his head? Why wasn't she convinced by the smile on his face like everyone else, why was she convinced to find the hidden truths? Why did she want to save him?

**Everything you push inside my head**

He tossed his head again, feeling the heavy, familiar weight of his braid against his shoulder. He knew, and she didn't. He knew the true truth.

**And I reject it until I'm dead**


End file.
